


Panacea

by trickybonmot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Auror!John, But not Love Potions, First Time, Hogwarts Professors, Hogwarts students - Freeform, Hufflepuff John, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Magic, PTSD John, Post-Hogwarts, Potions, Potions!Sherlock, Potterlock, Ravenclaw Sherlock, Romance, Second War with Voldemort, Separations and Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 09:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10487700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/pseuds/trickybonmot
Summary: Hogwarts student John Watson knows Sherlock Holmes exists, but he doesn't realize how important he is until they find themselves in seventh year Potions together. John is pretty sure he wants to be with Sherlock forever. Unfortunately, fate has other ideas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msdisdain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msdisdain/gifts).



> My first foray into Potterlock, written in honor of [msdisdain's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdisdain/pseuds/msdisdain) winning bid in my auction for [Fandom Trumps Hate](https://fandomtrumpshate.tumblr.com)! She gave me a bunch of headcanons and favorite tropes, I threw them in a blender, and this came out.
> 
> Many thanks to [iwantthatcoat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat) and [PipMer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer) for beta reading, and also to [InterroSand](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrosand/pseuds/Interrosand) and [Zwaluw](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zwaluw/pseuds/Zwaluw) for their feedback.
> 
> Content warnings: There are brief, non-explicit mentions of teenage sexuality, including sexualized bullying. There is non-explicit description of HP-canon-typical torture.

As far as any student at Hogwarts knows, the potions master and the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor have always shared a room. It’s not even a matter for gossip, really, except insofar as the second years delight in telling it to the first years, who reveal, thereafter, something of their personality in the way they interact with professors Holmes and Watson. But even those few who are shocked at first soon come to accept it as simply a fact of life at the school, that these two men share a bond of loyalty and love.

Let us now, as though by a scrying charm, cast our vision into the quarters they share. We see first that the room is round, topmost in the southwest tower of the faculty wing, for Professor Holmes likes privacy, and Watson likes the view of the lake and the open hills, rolling away and away. There is a rumor—an untrue one, though they have never denied it—that they turn themselves into ravens and fly about the grounds on fine autumn evenings.

Being round, the room is cozy, cluttered, disordered in that useful, welcoming way, as though everything one might need would be just at hand. And what might Holmes and Watson need? Well: books, certainly. A worn rug in shades of brown and gold. Two fat armchairs drawn close to the hearth; a writing desk; a table strewn with implements; shelves and glass cases full of objects and ingredients perhaps not best suited to storage in a habitable room, but, if they are dangerous, then what better place to keep them than here under their keepers’ watchful eyes? A pensieve, acquired years before by Holmes in repayment for a favor. A large, comfortable, velvet-curtained bed. A violin. A goblin’s skull. A genie’s shoe. A tall wooden wardrobe and an iron-bound chest. For light, there are candles (the good kind that don’t burn down), which float in a flock near the peak of the roof, unless summoned, as well as a glass globe suspended over the worktable, where Sherlock casts an illumination charm when he needs good light for working.

And what of the room’s inhabitants? Our spying eyes might find them working, Sherlock at his brazier and John at his writing desk. (John is writing another book, which he intends to call _Pedagogy of Defense Against the Dark Arts_. It is a refinement of the ideas behind the textbook he penned some five years ago.) If it is night, they may be in bed with the bedcurtains drawn, though Sherlock, in particular, keeps odd hours; we might catch him playing violin near the window by moonlight. But usually, especially if we look in on them after supper, or late in the morning on a Saturday, we will see John and Sherlock sitting together in their chairs by the fire, reading, talking, perhaps dozing off—for though they are not yet old, they are aging. John’s grey hairs hide gracefully among his sandy blond, but Sherlock has white streaks at his temples. Their friends might charitably say it makes him look distinguished, but John assures him he looks terrifying, and he plays now and then upon his intimidating looks to get respect from the unruly Ravenclaws over whom he presides as Head of House.

The patterns of their life are set. Their contentment is of the kind that seems eternal. Few of the young witches and wizards at the school can imagine that there was a time before the present. But John and Sherlock were young themselves, once, and they have not always been together.

***

John Watson’s last class on the last day of his third year at Hogwarts was Herbology. The Hufflepuffs were meant to be wrapping up the Argentine Alstroemeria plants in enchanted parchment for their summer dormancy, but nobody was very focused on the task. Even normally studious John had a head full of summery visions: the long, warm days back home in Devonshire, knocking about the countryside with the other Wizarding kids. And then there was the house cup, for which both Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were contenders, for once, and nobody could seem to stop talking about it, even when Professor Sprout shushed them. 

Still, the job did get done in the end, the rather spiky little shrubs poking out of their parcels like a row of disappointing Christmas presents. John had a free period next, so he stayed a bit late to help clean up. When he stepped outside the greenhouse, he was amazed to find a tall boy in Slytherin robes waiting for him.

“John Watson, isn’t it?” The older boy’s voice was smooth and posh, and John realized that he knew him: Mycroft Holmes, a seventh year. 

“Yes,” John said.

“I’d like a word with you, if you don’t mind.”

“What about?” John didn’t have a problem with Slytherins, generally, but he was not interested in being enlisted for any kind of scheme, and this had a rather scheme-ish flavor about it.

“It’s about my younger brother.”

“Oh,” said John. Not what he expected at all. He knew Sherlock, of course—or knew of him. He had famously mouthed off to Professor Trelawney in his first year, delivering a scathing barrage of observations about her history and character that had the rest of the class positively agog. Flustered, she had pronounced him “truly gifted in the art of divination” and declared that he no longer needed to be in her class. Sherlock had left the tower and never returned. It was rumored, with much snickering, that he spent the free hour in special tutoring with Professor Snape. John didn’t know if this was true or not, but it wouldn’t have surprised him. Sherlock had a prickly personality, and was well known for sucking up to most teachers and showing off in Potions, particularly. He was in his second year now, a year beneath John.

“You may be aware that he is not very popular.”

“Yeah, I think that’s an understatement. But what’s that got to do with me?”

“I’ve been able to protect him from the worst of the bullies so far, but, of course, I won’t be there for him next year.”

“Are you—what? Asking me to watch out for him?”

“In a word: yes.”

“But why me? Shouldn’t you be talking to the Ravenclaws?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Certainly not. The Ravenclaws are the problem.”

“Really? But isn’t he, like—“

“A genius,” Mycroft supplied. “Yes. It would seem that his housemates don’t appreciate being outshone. There are one or two that actually like him, of course, but they’re physically weak and none too popular, either. Hardly useful as allies. No, he needs someone like you on his side. Athletic, fair-minded, not as stupid as most.”

“Yeah, thanks,” John said. “But I’m not interested. I’ve got to start getting ready for O.W.L.s next year. I won’t have time to run around babysitting someone who’s probably going to hate me for it anyway.”

“I’m not asking you to babysit him,” Mycroft said. “Just keep an eye out. I can pay you for it, if that would sway you.”

“ _Pay_ me?” John scowled. “That’s even worse. Does he know you’re doing this?”

“He’ll suspect it either way,” Mycroft said. “You might as well profit by it.”

“Um, yeah, no, I don’t think so. Maybe you should find another Slytherin to do it. I hear some of them aren’t as stupid as most.”

And with that John stalked away, leaving Mycroft frowning on the path. 

Pay him! The very idea. He fumed over it for the rest of the afternoon, determined that he would never, ever be friends with Sherlock Holmes. 

***

John came back to Hogwarts the following year feeling somewhat guilty about his refusal. He resolved that he would try to help if he did see anything going on with Sherlock. Although, he told himself, he’d do the same for anyone he knew was being bullied. As it turned out, though, the matter hardly even came up. Between Quidditch practices and his increasingly busy class schedule, John honestly didn’t have much time to observe the social dynamics of those around him, and Ravenclaws were not all that sociable to begin with. He could have counted on one hand the number of times he ran into Sherlock in the halls, and he seemed to skip mealtimes a lot. 

The only time they had anything like a close encounter was on the school trip to Hogsmeade. John was walking down the street with Cory Brogan. Cory’s parents were both Muggles, and he had a Muggle music playing device with him, something called a _walkman_. He was letting John listen to it. John had a Muggle radio at home, and had spent the summer catching up on music. To walk down the street in Hogsmeade with a new INXS song playing right in his ears was beyond incredible. _I need you tonight_ , went the song, and John’s face got unexpectedly hot. He glanced at Cory, who was looking straight ahead, blushing furiously. _I’ve got to let you know._ John was thinking…he was thinking he could probably do something, take his hand maybe or—

And then Sherlock Holmes blundered out the door of Scrivenshaft’s quill shop and straight into John, sending both of them sprawling. The bag Sherlock was carrying flew out of his hand and several bottles of ink rolled out on the pavement. 

“Watch where you’re going!” Sherlock snapped, his voice barely carrying over the music.

“Sorry!” said John, as they scrambled to their feet. He and Cory bent to help gather up the bottles. When he stood up to give back a bottle of green ink, John was surprised to see that Sherlock was on the verge of angry tears. He snatched the bottle out of John’s hand and took off at a fast walk just as a group of several Ravenclaws came out of the shop. They looked after Sherlock, laughing, but the music was too loud to hear what they were saying. 

“Hey, what’s going on?” John asked. He took the headphones off his ears.

“Why are you talking so loud?” asked one of the students, derisively.

“Loud _ly_ ,” corrected her friend. “And, obviously, it’s because he couldn’t hear himself with those things on his ears, whatever they are.”

“Hey, look, what’s going on?” asked John again. “Why was he so upset?”

“I’m sure _we_ wouldn’t know,” said the second girl. “Ask him yourself, if you’re so curious.”

“I want a butterbeer,” said a boy in the back. “Can we get going?”

And they all went off together. John looked around for Sherlock, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“What a bunch of arseholes,” said Cory. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good,” Cory said. “So, um, do you want to borrow that for a while? I made that tape for you.” 

“What? Really?” He completely forgot to try to sound like it was no big deal. 

“Yeah,” Cory said, smiling back.

And that was how John forgot all about Sherlock Holmes for another year and more. 

***

Despite considerable distractions, John did well in his O.W.L.s, and by the start of his seventh year he was considering a career in medicine. In addition to his regular N.E.W.T. level classes (Potions, Herbology, Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense Against the Dark Arts), he was enrolled in a special class on healing spells and magical maladies taught by Madam Pomfrey, which included helping out four hours per week in the hospital wing. It was a very full schedule, and John thought, a little sadly, that it was just as well that he was single again. He and Cory had broken up the summer after his fifth year, and in his sixth year he had surprised himself by getting involved with Seraphina Simmons, his fellow Hufflepuff Chaser, but that was never anything serious, and now she had graduated. 

He wasn’t especially worried about any of his classes, with the minor exception of Potions. He understood the material well enough, he thought, but Professor Snape was nothing if not exacting. He had given John a passing grade the year before, but he had also called him in for a lecture about “applying himself” and “not being distracted by frivolous pursuits”, by which John supposed he meant Quidditch, though he could also have been talking about Seraphina. Whichever it was, Snape definitely had his eye on John. Since John wouldn’t be accepted to apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s without a grade of at least Exceeds Expectations in Potions, it wouldn’t do to let the professor down.

Which was not to say that he intended to take Snape’s advice. He was captain of the Quidditch team this year, on top of everything, and as for romance, well, if it happened to cross his path, he didn’t intend to turn it down. 

With all of these thoughts weighing on his mind, he approached his first day of Potions with determination and not a little curiosity. With so few students having qualified for the seventh year potions class, he knew there would be students from all four houses. He was the only Hufflepuff in the class, but there were also four Slytherins, two Gryffindors, and no fewer than five Ravenclaws. He took a seat next to a dark-haired boy in Ravenclaw robes, and was surprised to realize when the boy turned to regard him that it was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

“Hullo,” John said. Then blurted, “But you’re only a sixth year!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And last year I was only a fifth year, but I was here all the same.”

“You were…here? In seventh year Potions?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, as though it were the least interesting topic imaginable. “Being in this class is the only way I can have access to supplies, apparently. Anyway, Snape’s assured me he’ll cover new material this term.”

“So you were in seventh year potions? As a fifth year student? But what about N.E.W.T.s?”

“Professor Snape allowed me to test in.”

“Test in?” John marveled. “Wow, that’s amazing. You must be really brilliant.”

Sherlock sniffed. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“No? What do they usually say?”

“They usually ask if I’m having sex with him.”

“Well that’s…fucked up.”

Sherlock frowned and said nothing. John was saved from thinking of something else to say by the arrival of Professor Snape. He swept in with his usual swirl of robes, and John couldn’t help rolling his eyes a little. If Snape was so offended by frivolous pursuits, then perhaps he should stop practicing dramatic moves in front of the mirror.

“Rather than begin the course with a lecture,” Snape began, without preamble, “we will go straight to the benches and begin preparing a draught of Panacea Potion. This process will take until the end of the year to complete, and will constitute your final exam, accounting for a considerable portion of your grade in this class. Panacea potion is one of the most powerful healing draughts known to wizardkind. Needless to say, the ingredients are exceedingly rare and precious. Should you make an error, you will not be issued any additional supplies. You will work individually, without talking. You will find the recipe on page two hundred and ninety-seven of Collingwood’s _Most Estimable Potions_. Time is of the essence, but do not cut corners. You may begin now.”

As John made his way to the worktable and opened his book, he wondered whether they were actually going to spend the entire year working on this one potion. But once he read the instructions, he understood. The first step was just to mix up a bunch of ingredients and say a couple of incantations. The mixture would then steep for 99 days, at which time there was another few day’s worth of active work, followed by another long rest. The first step was to measure out a large beaker of honey and then add a pinch of powdered unicorn horn. As he worked, John cast a surreptitious glance at Sherlock’s workspace. It looked like he was working on the same potion, and not some project of his own. 

When the class period ended, John was relieved to find that he had reached the end of the instructions, and his potion was ready to steep. Snape had not been joking when he said that time would be tight. Even more comforting: Sherlock’s mixture looked the same as John’s, like a large glass jar full of rather dirty honey. John jogged to catch up with Sherlock as they left the class.

“Hey,” John said. 

Sherlock glanced at him, then away, then back again as though surprised that John was actually there.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, quietly. 

“So, have you made that potion before?” John asked. “Did Snape assign it last year?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “He did. But no, I didn’t make it. I made a useless, twinkly brown sludge. So if you’re looking for someone to cheat off of—“

“No!” John said. “No, no, that’s not—no. I was just curious because you…were in the class last year and, and. Wait. So did you…pass? Did you pass the class?”

Sherlock’s lips twisted into a series of endearingly bitter expressions. “No,” he said at last. 

“You failed it?” John couldn’t hide his incredulity.

“Not so brilliant after all, then?”

“No, it isn’t that! It’s just—I can’t believe Snape let you in again.”

Sherlock shrugged. “He told me I’d fail the class, and he was right. He usually is. But he let me in again without any problems.”

“He must like you,” John said.

“Nobody likes me,” Sherlock said, with conviction. “And Snape doesn’t like anyone.”

“Snape would like someone who was brilliant at Potions. Which you must be, if you were in seventh year Potions as a fifth year, even if you did fail it the first time. Also, I like you. So, there, you’re wrong. Two people at Hogwarts like you.”

“You can’t _like_ me. We’ve hardly spoken.”

“We’re speaking now, aren’t we?”

“That’s not…ugh. Look, I have to get to Arithmancy.” They had reached an intersection of halls.

“Yeah, fine. Look, I’ll see you on Thursday, yeah?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, and turned to go. 

John watched his retreating back with bemusement. What a mad, brilliant cock of a boy. John really _did_ like him.

***

“Do you want to study together?” John asked, when he saw Sherlock in class two days later.

“What would be the point of that?” Sherlock asked.

“Um,” John said. “Well, you know. Help each other stay focused. Talk over the difficult stuff. Just company. You know.”

“How would _company_ help anyone stay focused?”

John rolled his eyes. “Well, look, you don’t have to, but I’ll be in the library at four today if you change your mind.”

John loitered near the library entrance from four until four fifteen, but Sherlock didn’t show up, so he went inside to find a place to sit. It was only by chance that he caught sight of Sherlock, already sitting in a tucked-away corner with his books spread out around him.

“Sherlock, hey,” said John.

“You’re late,” Sherlock said, without looking up.

“No I’m not, I was just waiting for you. It’s lucky I even spotted you hiding over here.”

“I’m not hiding,” Sherlock said. “The light’s good here.”

“Whatever you say,” said John. He sat down and took out his books and parchments. 

“So what are you working on?” John asked.

“Charms.”

“I’m pretty good in Charms. Want me to quiz you?”

It took a little convincing, but Sherlock did eventually allow John to quiz him using his notes. Then Sherlock quizzed John in Potions. Then they gossiped a bit about Harry Potter, who had been sorted that year, a topic which even Sherlock Holmes found interesting.

“What I don’t understand,” Sherlock said, “is where He Who Must Not Be Named is now. He couldn’t have been destroyed utterly, only rendered incorporeal. He had friends, followers—surely they would try to bring him back.”

“Nah,” John said. “Never happen. Even his friends must be glad to be free of him. Look at how peaceful everything is now. Nobody could want to go back to the bad old days, surely.”

“Don’t underestimate the hunger for power,” Sherlock said. “Those who desire it would destroy anything and anyone that stood in their way. We haven’t seen the last of all that, you mark my words.”

“Well thanks for the prophecy, Professor Trelawney. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please. It’s not divination, it’s just common sense.”

The sun was getting low in the sky by now, and most of the students in the library were packing up their things. 

“Nearly dinner time, I guess,” John said. “Do you want to meet again tomorrow? I’ve got free after Herbology, at one.”

“Can’t, I’ve got Ancient Runes then. Maybe—“ He stopped, looking uncertain.

“Maybe Saturday, then?” said John. “If it’s not too cold, we can sit outside somewhere.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock, suddenly sharp and dismissive. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Well, inside, then? I didn’t mean—“

“No, no, it isn’t that. I think the next time I’m free would be Monday afternoon.”

“Oh…kay,” John said. “Want to meet here again? Around two?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. 

“Good,” John said. “Well, see you then.”

And so they fell into a routine of studying together. It was…well, it was useful. John’s grades definitely improved. And it was pleasant—fun, even, being with Sherlock, getting to know him. His point of view was different from anyone John had ever met; he almost always came away from their sessions with some new thought in his head. And Sherlock could tell the most extraordinary things about people just by looking at them, like where they had grown up and what they were interested in and what they were scared of. John was dead impressed with that particular skill, even when Sherlock’s observations weren’t funny or scandalous or horrifying, which they frequently were. John was half desperate to know what Sherlock could deduce about _him_ , but he was also terrified to ask. 

Maybe he would have asked, if they had ever met outside of their very explicitly designated study times. But, although John invited Sherlock to do things all the time, he never accepted. They only ever met in busy public places—usually the library—and only when there was a time constraint. Sherlock never wanted to meet up with John and just…be. He was a bit hurt by that, to be honest. He _liked_ Sherlock, and he thought Sherlock liked him, but any friendly overture was guaranteed to meet with a firm refusal. Never mind any _more_ than friendly overtures, which John did not even let himself think about….at least, not too much. Usually.

The only time they ever met on a weekend was a Saturday in early December. John was sleeping in. Actually, he was lying half awake, debating with himself whether Liam Little, snoring three beds away, would stay asleep long enough for John to have a quiet wank. Or, was Liam faking sleep in hopes that John would finally get up so that he could pull the same trick? It had been known to happen. John had not yet reached a conclusion when a tapping at the window caught his attention. He pulled the bed curtains aside to look, and saw a paper airplane—a parchment airplane, really—tapping its sharp nose urgently against the glass. John lifted the sash to let it in, whereupon it stabbed itself futilely against his chest and then dropped to the floor, exhausted. 

Bending to pick it up, he saw his name written on it in Sherlock’s neat hand. He felt a little stab of hope not unlike the stab of the airplane; perhaps Sherlock would like to spend a little time with him today? But when he opened it to read the note inside, his heart sank to the bottom of his feet.

“99 DAYS” was all it said. A quick mental calculation confirmed it. John leaned out of the window to see if Sherlock was out there. He wasn’t, so John got dressed quickly and rushed to the Potions classroom, hoping he wasn’t too late.

Sure enough, most of the class was there, with Snape looking on impassively just as though it wasn’t a bloody weekend. The only person who was absent was one of the Slytherin girls, Eva Greene. Sherlock gave John only the briefest glance when he entered.

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Watson,” Snape intoned, but he didn’t fail John on the spot, which might mean there was still a chance he could save the Panacea Potion.

Now, like any barely competent student of Potions, John had read the full recipe before beginning work on the potion. However, he hadn’t exactly committed it to memory, and he was too worried about lost time to read ahead again right now, so he simply dove into following the instructions. He was working so hard on preparing and adding the many complicated ingredients that he didn’t notice, at first, that some of the other students were leaving their benches. It was only when he reached step thirty-three, “let three gode Wyzards joyn left handes above the myxture and saye Brunhylde’s Blessynge,” that he looked up and realized he needed to find two partners.

Sherlock was looking at him. They were the only two people left. Since Eva Greene hadn’t shown up, they would never make up the number.

“Oh my God! Sherlock, what are we going to do? Maybe we can get somebody to do ours after they finish their own?”

“There isn’t time,” Sherlock said. 

John looked around frantically. There was one other wizard in the room, after all.

“Professor Snape,” he said. “There are only eleven of us here right now, which means we don’t have the right number of people to say the blessing.”

Snape raised his eyebrows. “And why wasn’t this anticipated? Why didn’t you make sure that everyone would be here? It was no secret when the day would be, or what would be required.”

Anger rose in John’s throat. “How is that possibly fair?”

“I anticipated it,” Sherlock said. “Actually, I sent a Needle-Nosed Flyer to her room. I’m surprised it didn’t reach her.”

By now, most of the students were listening. All eyes turned to the three Slytherin students, who had been just about to join hands over one of the cauldrons, and were now looking, John thought, a bit guilty.

One of the girls, Johanna Woodcock, separated herself from the group. 

“Professor Snape,” she said, “may I speak to you?”

She took professor Snape aside and spoke to him in a quiet, urgent voice. Professor Snape frowned, and John heard him say, “I see.” Then he came back to John and Sherlock.

“Very well, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson, I will assist you with your potions, assuming you are prepared.”

“It is Brunhilde’s Beatific Blessing, isn’t it?” This was an incantation John had learned in third year charms. He hoped he remembered all the words.

“Is it?” asked Snape, deadpan.

“Of course it is,” Sherlock said, going to John’s cauldron. Sherlock held his hand out over the cauldron, John placed his hand on top of it, and Snape laid his hand over them both. Holding Sherlock’s hand was rather nice, and having his hand held by Snape was rather strange, but John tried to ignore these feelings and focus on the magic. They each took out their wands with their free hands, and began the incantation, wand tips flicking in unison as their voices joined. 

The idea of Brunhilde’s Beatific Blessing was more than a bit vague, or so John had always felt. It was just a kind of…well, an infusion. Of luck, or well-being, or virtue. It wasn’t a prayer to God or any other being, as far as John could tell, but “blessing” was a good name for it, nevertheless. It had never occurred to John that it could be used in a healing context, partly because it was really quite a minor spell. It took a long time to cast, and when you finished, the only visible effect was a tiny pop of golden light. You couldn’t tell whether the thing you had cast it on was any better than it had been before. One of John’s aunts was known to use it all the time, and she was regarded by the rest of the family as a superstitious loon.

But when the three of them began casting it together, John knew it was going to be different. As they worked, their joined hands began to glow with a soft, golden light. A warm, tingling feeling started up in John’s palm, spreading to his fingertips and partway up his arm. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. He was sharply aware of Sherlock’s presence on a level that was more than physical—and Snape’s presence, also. He found that he knew things about them—incredibly private things—but he couldn’t have put them into words. Maybe they could have been expressed by poetry, or music. It was as though he knew who they were: their hopes and fears, and why they were alive. As the spell crested, he felt overwhelmed with emotions: love, empathy, and profound respect. 

As the incantation drew to a close, the glowing light flared in their hands. Then, with the final flick of their wands, it plunged down into the cauldron. Unlike the usual evanescent spark that John had produced when casting the spell alone, this light coalesced into a glowing sphere that sank to the bottom of the cauldron like a large glass marble. It then began to dissolve into the potion, its edges blurring slightly almost at once.

“Quickly,” said Sherlock, and they moved, without releasing their hands, to Sherlock’s cauldron. They were not the only such trio maneuvering about the room; John felt curiously certain that, once he released his partners’ hands, it would be hard to join up again. Evidently this feeling was shared by the others. John looked up quickly at Sherlock and Snape’s faces before they began the spell again. Snape was unreadable, as usual, but Sherlock met his eyes briefly. His look was wide-eyed, awestruck—terrified. That shook John a little, and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to do the spell. But if he didn’t, Sherlock’s potion wouldn’t work out and he would fail the class again. John took a deep breath and began the Blessing. Sherlock and Snape joined in with their lower voices. 

There were tears in John’s eyes when they finished this time, but the incantation had worked. Sherlock’s potion received its little sphere of warmth with an audible sizzle. As soon as it was done, Sherlock quickly withdrew his hand. John and Snape disengaged less dramatically.

“Wow,” said John, rubbing his eyes. “That was some real magic.”

Sherlock scoffed and turned away. Snape said nothing but—strangest thing yet—he laid his hand briefly on John’s shoulder, as though to comfort him. 

“Work to do,” he said as he turned away, and he was right, of course. John went to back to his cauldron and his book. 

Most of the other students were busy casting the Blessing a third time, so John had the pleasant feeling that he was finally making up some lost time. The next step was to clean and re-charm the steeping jar, and then strain the potion back into it. As he poured the mixture, he admired its silky consistency and warm, glowing color. No twinkly brown sludge for him! But the process wasn’t over yet. The potion would now require a new infusion of herbs and fungi every thirty-three days until the end of the school year. There certainly were a lot of steps. John was beginning to suspect that the purpose of all the ingredients was really to pad out the recipe to be thirty-three pages long. But for all he knew, that was part of the magic, too.

John finished before Sherlock, and waited for him outside the classroom door. He looked rough when he came out, and met John’s gaze briefly with bruised-looking eyes before turning away again. But he allowed John to walk with him.

“Uh, so,” John said, looking for a neutral topic. “What to do you reckon happened to Eva Greene?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Well, it’s only a guess,” he said. He halted.

“Yeah? What do you think?”

“Eva’s parents were known Death Eaters. They served He Who Must Not Be Named during the years of terror.”

“So?” said John. “Why would that make her miss Potions?”

“Well. The potion instructions call for ‘three gode wyzards’. I’m guessing that the others—the Slytherins—thought she wasn’t…”

“Good,” John finished, feeling suddenly strange. “Oh.” He thought about doing what they’d just done, with someone like that, and shuddered.

“And they didn’t want to risk getting stuck doing the Blessing with her, in case it messed up their potions.”

“Maybe other reasons, too,” John said. “So they made sure she didn’t make it. God, scary. Wow. So what’s going to happen to her?”

“She’ll fail Potions,” Sherlock said.

Like a certain other student John knew. 

“Is that how you failed?” John asked. “I mean, not because you’re not—I mean, you _know_ I know that you’re. You know. But if the others thought—”

Sherlock’s lips twisted. “That wasn’t the reason.” 

“So what was it, then?”

“If I wanted to tell you, I would have done so already,” Sherlock said, his voice rough.

“Oh. ‘Course. Sorry,” John said. But Sherlock sped up his steps to get away, and John didn’t go after him. 

Sherlock hardly spoke to John for the rest of that week. John wasn’t quite sure what had gone wrong; it seemed like working the Blessing together had screwed up their friendship somehow. 

_If it was a friendship_ , said a small, nasty voice in John’s head. Sherlock had only ever wanted to study, after all. Was it possible he had been using John? Was it possible that he didn’t need John anymore, now that the difficult part of the Panacea Potion was finished?

 _No_ , John fiercely told that little voice. No, they had…they had _known_ each other. Sherlock wouldn’t do a thing like that. Sherlock _was_ his friend. John would just have to remind him of that fact.

But coming on strong with Sherlock hadn’t worked. Or it had worked up to a point, but John had a feeling that if he pressed Sherlock too hard, he would withdraw for good. So in the days that followed the Blessing, John kept things as light as he could. He still sat next to Sherlock in Potions, but he limited his chatting to the minutes before class began. Afterward, he walked with him to the spot where Sherlock turned right for Arithmancy and John turned left for Charms. He did not invite Sherlock to study, let alone anything more. Sherlock did not…relax, exactly, in response to this approach. But he did at least receive John’s limited companionship without complaint.

It felt like the hardest thing John had ever done. Whatever the Blessing had done to Sherlock, John was painfully of aware of what it had done to _him_. Ever since that moment of connection with Sherlock, John hadn’t been able to get him out of his head for a moment. Whatever their relationship was, it was _important_. John knew it, and he couldn’t let it go. He had thought, when it seemed that he was looking into Sherlock’s soul, that Sherlock felt the same. But now his behavior said something very different, and the contradiction tore at John’s heart.

They went on in this fashion until the Christmas holidays. Had Sherlock been any other friend, John would have suggested they get together over the break, but he knew that Sherlock would refuse. Oh well, John thought, perhaps it was for the best. A couple of weeks apart might give them both a chance to clear their heads. They could work things out after the break.

He thought he was resigned to this plan. When the day came, he boarded the Hogwarts Express determined not to have too heavy a heart. He sat in a train compartment with Dominic Turnbull and Erica Rowbottom, two of his best Hufflepuff friends. They chatted happily for a while, but John found himself only half listening. He gazed out of the window.

“Hello, John, are you with us?” Dominic teased. It was the third time John had lost the thread of the conversation.

“God, sorry,” John said, shaking his head. “I didn’t sleep well. I think I’ll take a walk, maybe, try to wake up a little. See you in a bit.”

Without waiting for their reply, he let himself out of the compartment and began walking down the center of the swaying train, looking into each compartment as he went. He knew Sherlock was going home for the holiday, so he must be on this train somewhere. John walked all the way to the front of the train, then turned back past the compartment where he’d been sitting and started heading for the back. He finally found Sherlock in the second to last car. He was alone, reading.

“Hey,” John said, opening the compartment door enough to stick his head in. “Can I come in?”

“If you must,” Sherlock said. So John went in and sat down across from him. Sherlock looked up at him briefly, then back down at his book.

“So, can I write to you?” John asked. 

“What would be the point?” Sherlock said to his book.

“The point,” John said, as calmly as he could, “is that I like you and I’ll miss you and it would make me happy to know that you were thinking of me, too.”

“It’s only two weeks,” Sherlock sniffed.

“Two _days_ is too much,” John blurted, and Sherlock finally looked at him. John pressed his advantage. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t know what happened when we cast that spell together, but you’re all I can think about since then. I mean I don’t think—it didn’t change anything, it just made me realize that I can’t just…I can’t just let you do this. Whatever you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Sherlock said flatly.

“But you _are_ ,” John said. “You’re avoiding me. You barely talk to me. You’re more reclusive than ever.”

“John, I’m doing exactly as I’ve always done. It’s you who haven’t attempted to initiate anything.”

“No, I haven’t, because I can tell that you’re…you’re going through something, and you don’t want me to pry into it. Well, okay, I haven’t pried into it, and I won’t, but I just…I was hoping for some kind of a signal, I guess.”

“Why should I send you _signals_?” Sherlock scowled, some emotion cracking into his voice at last. “I can’t guess what you’re thinking, I don’t know what you’re hoping for. If you want something, just _say_ it, don’t wait for me to—“

“I want to kiss you.”

He hadn’t known he was going to say it, but it was utterly true. Sherlock froze.

“What?” he said.

“I want to,” John said. He crossed over to the seat beside Sherlock, close enough that their clothes brushed together. Sherlock watched him, open mouthed. John’s heart beat hard in his chest. He had no idea whether Sherlock was interested in boys or girls or _anything_ , but he could no longer bear not asking. “Can I kiss you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was close, close enough for John to feel the air move when he breathed, close enough for him to hear the slight unsteadiness as he inhaled.

“All right,” he said, very quietly.

So John closed his eyes and kissed him. A single, still, unbroken press of lips to lips, going on and on as the train rocked them.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, when it was done.

“So, can I write to you?” John asked.

***

Dear Sherlock,

Thanks again for giving me your address. How are things at home? I hope your family is well. Do you have family visiting for Christmas? Are you going anywhere? Is Mycroft there with you? I remember him from school. It’s hard to believe the two of you are brothers. You seem so different, apart from the fact that you are both brilliant, I suppose. 

My sister Harriet (Harry) is coming for just a couple days at Christmas. Says she has something to tell us all, don’t ask me what, unless it’s that her roommate of the last five years is actually her girlfriend, which was already obvious to everyone. Other gossip: my mum is friends with Molly Weasley, the mother of Percy and Fred and George and Ron (and Bill, if you remember him, he was head boy my 4th year, had a bit of a crush on him actually) (they are all Gryffindors, Percy is prefect), and anyway Ron is best friends with Harry Potter. She (Mrs W.) cannot stop talking about him. Apparently the Muggles who raised him were really terrible to him and he had no idea about magic or Hogwarts or ANYTHING. I can’t imagine. She also said that according to Ron, Snape hates Harry with a passion, which is quite weird. I can’t imagine him being passionate about anything except Potions.

Speaking of that, I have done the calculations and am happy to report that the Panacea Potion does not need anything from us over the holiday, thank heaven for small mercies. I would not put it past our prof. I still can’t believe he assigned us reading.

So, please let me know how you are. Tell me what you get for Christmas. What is your favorite Christmas food? I think I like mince pies best.

Thinking of you a lot. I hope you have a nice Christmas.

John

***

Dear John,

I am not sure I would have given you my address if I had realized how vapid your communiques would be. To answer your questions: fine, yes, no, yes (unfortunately), and I like mince pies, as well.

I was given twenty galleons for Christmas, and some quills and ink, four books, and a blue scarf (as if my school scarf were not blue enough), a new bow for my violin, and Uncle Rudy got me tickets to a concert in London this Wednesday, which would be lovely, except that Mycroft is coming, too.

I did the Potions reading. It was not very much, really. I would have finished it on the train. 

I have nothing else to tell you that is remotely consequential. Being home is tremendously boring. It would be more interesting if you were here. Tell me about your Christmas as well, if you’d like.

Sherlock

***

Dear Sherlock,

I am sorry that you found my last communique to be vapid, but since you also say that I am interesting, I will try not to take it too personally. The truth is that I do have a profound thought once in a while, but just lately they are not fit to be sent by owl. I will be happy to share them with you privately when we get back to school. 

Actually, if you want to know something slightly more important: I was right about Harry’s girlfriend. Mum and dad didn’t react too badly, but things are a little bit tense. They don’t know that I had a boyfriend 4th and 5th year. I was kind of waiting for a good moment to tell them, but this doesn’t seem to be it. I don’t know if that matters to you, but I guess I thought you should know.

Also I got my application paperwork for St. Mungo’s. It’s a huge heap of stuff that I have to fill out, and I have to write an essay and get letters of reference. I know I can get one from Madam Pomfrey, but I don’t know who else…am debating between McG and Snape. I don’t think either of them are too impressed with me, but they both know me well and they have a reputation for being strict, so if they do say anything good it should carry a lot of weight. Maybe I’ll ask them both, I don’t know. Other option is Flitwick, but he likes everyone. End of term seems very close, all of a sudden.

Anyway, Christmas was nice, apart from the awkwardness. Harry’s girlfriend, Clara, is really cool, actually. I also got some money and books, a couple of jumpers, and my mad aunt got me a self-sharpening pocket knife, quite a good one. 

I’m glad it’s only a week until I see you again.

John

***

John,

I am sorry I wasn’t able to write sooner. There has been a family emergency. I am no longer in Britain. I don’t know when I will see you again, but I am not coming back to Hogwarts this year.

I’m sorry about this. I’ll write if I can.

You should certainly ask Snape for a letter.

Yours,  
Sherlock

***

SHERLOCK tell me where the hell you are and what is going on.

***

John’s owl, Cillian, fluttered through the open window of the Hufflepuff common room, bedraggled and clearly exhausted. He limped over to John, who picked him up and set him on his shoulder before opening the parchment he held. With a sinking heart, John recognized his own undelivered letter. Sherlock was gone.

***

It was possible, John learned, to function with a broken heart. He kept going to his classes. He kept up with the demands of the Panacea Potion—his, and Sherlock’s batch as well. (Thankfully, after the Blessing, there were no other steps in the preparation that required working with other wizards). He got letters from Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall, and after working up his courage, he approached Professor Snape after Potions.

“Professor, could I speak with you?” he asked.

“Watson,” Snape said. “What is it?”

“Well, I’m applying for an apprenticeship at Saint Mungo’s after I graduate, and I was wondering if you might be able to write me a letter of reference.”

“A risky proposition,” Snape said. “I trust you understand that I will offer my unvarnished opinion.”

“Of course, yes. I’m counting on it, sir.”

“Very well, you will have your letter. Will that be all?”

“Actually,” John said, and paused.

“Yes?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you knew anything about what happened to Sherlock Holmes. Where he is or—or anything?”

Snape shook his head slowly—almost sadly, as it seemed to John. “I’m sorry, Mr. Watson. There’s nothing I or anyone can tell you. You must look to your future, not your past.”

“Yes, sir,” John said, and went back to his rooms. But he couldn’t help noticing that Snape had not said he didn’t know anything.

***

John finished out the school year with no further word from Sherlock. Gryffindor won the house cup that year, with Dumbledore awarding a lot of points rather high-handedly, John thought, at the last moment. The Panacea Potion turned out beautifully: a thick, golden liquid that almost hummed with potency. On the last day of class, he decanted his and Sherlock’s potions together into a large crystal bottle. To his surprise, Snape tipped a dose of it into a small vial before stoppering the bottle.

“Take this with you,” he said, handing the vial to John. “Everyone’s potions will go into the school’s stores, to be used in case of need. But you have worked doubly hard and, as you are going into the healing profession, you may one day find it useful.”

John slipped the vial into his inner pocket, murmuring his thanks. It felt good to have it there, like a little live thing nestled close to his heart.

***

Saint Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was Europe’s premier institution of its kind. John was challenged there in ways he never could have predicted. It was a far cry from the sleepy business of Madam Pomfrey’s hospital wing, though John was by no means ungrateful for the guidance and experience she had given him. He used his strong knowledge of potions and charms every day, and transfiguration and herbology came in handy at least every week or two. His mentors all agreed that he excelled at his work, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he would go on to become a well respected healer.

Which is why Healer Sarah Sawyer, the director, was so surprised when John handed in his resignation mid-way through his third year of apprenticeship.

“But why, John?” she asked again. “You’ve been so successful here. We’ll be really sorry to lose you.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t help feeling I can be more useful elsewhere.”

“More useful than here? But you’re making people well, John! What’s more useful than that?”

John shook his head. “You’ve heard the rumors. Hell, you know the statistics. Anti-Muggleborn crimes are on the rise everywhere. More and more of our patients are victims of dark curses.”

“You can’t seriously think that He Who Must Not Be Named has really returned.”

“I don’t know whether he has or not, but his followers are certainly feeling bold. People are getting hurt, and it’s going to get worse. I can’t just sit here and wait for them to come to me.”

“So you’re going to join the Aurors.”

“That’s the plan. If they’ll have me.”

“Oh, I’m sure that won’t be a problem, but…isn’t there anything I can say to convince you?”

“No, I’m sorry. My mind is made up.”

They were sorry to see him go, but go he did. He didn’t find Auror training difficult; the discipline was no worse than what he had faced as a healing apprentice, and he had always been athletic and good at Defense Against the Dark Arts. He learned more about magical law, and about tactics, and after half a year of training he went into active duty.

It wasn’t what he had expected, but at least he’d had brains enough to expect that it wouldn’t be. He was assigned to London, and his day to day duties were, for the most part, rather dull: obliviating Muggles, confiscating illegal artifacts, that sort of thing. But just now and then he got a chance to make a real difference, like the time he was part of a raid that broke up a nest of dark wizards in a club in Central London. They’d been about to carry out an attack on a Goblin tenement that would have resulted in the loss of many lives, not to mention an unacceptable increase in inter-species tension in the city and beyond. That was the first time John came face to face with true evil, the kind that he had become an Auror to fight. One of the wizards started to cast the Killing Curse at John, but John disarmed him lightning fast and hit him with a paralysis hex. That night, before going to bed in his small rented room, John looked at himself in the mirror and knew that he had chosen the right path.

It was nearly a year into John’s career as an Auror that they received reports of a series of suspicious magical explosions in a Muggle part of Croydon. They hadn’t been aware of any Death Eater activity in the area (by now the Aurors were calling them Death Eaters again—might as well call a spade a spade), and the explosions hadn’t targeted any buildings, so it was presumed to be either an accident or a prank. John went down to investigate with his usual partner, a rather hot-tempered witch named Holly Quigley. 

“I dunno, John,” she said. “Could have been some Muggle thing for all we know.”

“Hang on,” said John, cocking his head. He was listening, looking, maybe even smelling, searching for the door. The tricky thing about magical enforcement in London was that the Wizarding world was overlaid on the city in a somewhat discontinuous way. Wizarding enclaves could be small and difficult to find. Sure, there were some everybody knew about, like Diagon Alley, but others you could only find by luck and skill. Now and then a wizard or witch would find some corner of the Muggle world that nobody cared about and fold it quietly away for a hiding place. John suspected that was what had happened here.

It was late at night. The street was lined with a row of down-at-heel shops with their steel shutters rolled down tight. John walked down the deserted pavement as quietly as he could, Holly trailing a few steps behind. He stretched all his senses to the limit, looking for—there. That feeling, that impression that one step had carried him farther than it should. John turned to look at the row of buildings. Just here, there was a crack between two of them, a dark slot wholly unremarkable to the naked eye.

“It’s here,” he said. “You ready?”

“Ready,” Holly said, and drew her wand. 

John leveled his wand at the crack. _”Apparecium latentia,”_ he spoke, and flicked the wand to either side. A narrow beam of blue light shone out of his wand and slithered away into the dark crevice. Now there was nothing to do but wait. The revealing charm John had cast would work if the magic in play were an illusion, but it would not break a Fidelius charm. 

For a moment, nothing happened. But then a flicker of blue light reappeared, slithering back toward them out of the dark. When it came level with the fronts of the buildings, it bloomed suddenly outward, revealing an entire building where the crack had been. The two buildings on either side slid obligingly out of the way. The new building had once been a car repair shop, from the look of it, but now it was something else entirely. The workbenches were cluttered with all sorts of burners, beakers, cauldrons, bottles, and jars. A smoking brazier stood in the middle of the floor, hanging over which was a large cauldron of dangerously bubbling silvery liquid. 

Filaments of light from John’s charm were still mapping out the corners of the room, so it took a few moments for him to notice the man bent over one of the workbenches, carefully spooning powder out onto a scale and humming to himself. 

“You there,” Holly said. “We are Aurors of the Ministry of Magic. Kindly stop what you are doing and put your hands up.”

“Oh, that’s really not a good idea,” the wizard said dryly, and John froze. “If I don’t get this reagent into the brew it’ll go critical in less than a minute.”

“I’m warning you,” Holly said, her wand at the ready. 

“Holly, stop,” said John, just as the wizard turned around and saw them.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Hello, John.”

John had all of half a second to gape at him before the cauldron on the fire bubbled over and combusted with a loud bang and a blinding flash of light. John dove to one side to get away from the blast, and Holly threw herself behind a pillar. Sherlock, John saw when the smoke cleared, had been thrown backward. John stood and went to him quickly and was relieved to find him still conscious. John helped him to sit up. Sherlock coughed and waved smoke away from his face.

“Well that wasn’t nearly as bad as the last one,” he said. “I think it’s improving. Say, John, who’s this witch then, hmm? Bit too glowy. Oh, hullo, you’re glowy, too. Got a bit of an aura going. Get you a de-glowing potion, probably got one around here, or if not I shall make you one.”

“Sherlock,” John said. “There’s no such thing as de-glowing potion, and what—what the hell are you talking about? Christ, what are you _making_?”

“Oh, well nothing _now_ ,” Sherlock flapped a hand toward the upended cauldron. “Just a thing. Bit of fun. Makes people glowy, though, haven’t been able to solve that.”

“Makes…people…Sherlock are you intoxicated? On your own potion?”

“Oh, no, no, not _my_ potion,” Sherlock said, standing up unsteadily. He dusted the front of his apron briskly, which made not the slightest difference to its filthy state. “That’s the control, I bought it. I’m just try’n’a make a better one so’s I can get more bread’n’honey, guvna. Oh! Did you say Aurors?”

“Yeah,” said John. “I’m afraid—“

 _”Petrificus totalus!”_ Holly cried, and Sherlock was suddenly stock-still, frozen in place. 

“Unknown Wizard,” Holly went on, “you are under arrest on suspicion of brewing illegal mind-altering potions for profit.”

John sighed deeply. “Yeah. That’s more or less what I was going to say.”

***

With a paralyzed Sherlock in tow, they apparated back to headquarters. They wrestled Sherlock into a holding cell, and John laid him carefully down on the cot so that he wouldn’t hurt himself when the charm wore off. He turned to leave him there, hoping his show of excess tenderness hadn’t been observed, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he ran into his commanding officer, Auror Captain James Sholto.

“All right Watson?” he asked.

“Oh,” John said. “Yes, sir. Actually—actually, I beg your pardon, sir, but might I have a word?”

“Of course,” Sholto said. He seemed to be in an easygoing mood. That would make this easier. John liked and respected Sholto a good deal, but he could be very strict, and what John was about to ask was rather outside of regulations.

“It’s just, this wizard, sir. Sherlock Holmes.”

“The potion swiller? What about him?”

“Well, I knew him in school, sir. I don’t know what he’s been through since then, but he’s brilliant. Really brilliant. If he can be rehabilitated, he could be a tremendous asset, assuming he was willing to work with us.”

“Well if he were willing to work with us, then why was he hiding in a disappeared garage in Croydon?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” John said. “He left school under mysterious circumstances. Perhaps he’s been in some kind of trouble.”

“Well he’s in trouble now,” Sholto said. “Still, I take your point. I’ll put a word in with the interrogators.”

***

As interested as John was in the fate of Sherlock Holmes, he was not to learn any more about it until quite some time later, because that was the night that Death Eaters destroyed the Brockdale Bridge. Open war had broken out. John was awakened from a sound sleep by a Ministry howler ordering him to report for duty. When he reached the Auror headquarters, every Auror in London seemed to have been called there. Head Auror Scrimgeour himself was handing out assignments. John was dispatched, with several others, to Somerset, where it was rumored that another strike would soon take place. There he met the enemy. For two long years he fought against the forces of darkness. Many times he faced death. He lost friends in the fight, and lovers. Often they died protecting people who did not even believe their kind existed. 

In early April of 1998, John was captured. He was taken to a dungeon beneath an old castle that belonged to a pureblood family of ancient name. What need had they for their Dark Lord, John wondered, when they already had wealth and power beyond what ordinary folk could hope for? In that place, they broke his wand (oak, eleven inches, dragon heartstring, firm). In that place, he was tortured. In that place, Dementors toyed with him, sipping his soul away drop by drop, so that he would have lost his own name and succumbed to madness, if not for the one thing he still had, the one secret thing they could not find and could not take away: the little vial of Panacea Potion, which he had carried with him for so long that it thought itself a part of him and was thus invisible. In that dark place he drank it, drop by drop, to renew what his tormentors took from him, and so he lived until, on the day he drank the last drop and finally despaired, Voldemort was destroyed at the Battle of Hogwarts. After that, he only knew they no longer came to hurt him, and he slept, and starved, and was finally found and freed three days after the victory.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people have commented that my Wizarding names are especially good. The truth is, I am crap at coming up with names, and nearly all the names in this fic came from this [Hogwarts Student Generator](http://sh.gayahithwen.com/simplechar/kargen.php). It's a very useful thing!

John had known that war would change him. But the thing that hurt the most, he thought, on a particularly brazen and luscious autumn day, was that he was still himself. If he were someone else, perhaps he could have moved on, sorted things out, found a new place in the world. But instead he was only himself: spell-shocked, too jumpy to serve as an Auror in peacetime, but with no idea how to be anything else. With his pension and a new wand (alder, eleven inches, phoenix feather, unyielding), he lived in London—the last place he had been happy, if only for a little time. He sought no work, and had none. As often as not he wandered the streets, looking for something, though he hid from himself what it was.

The thing that found him was not what he’d been looking for, though it was something. Someone.

“John! John Wason!”

John turned to see a portly wizard jogging toward him. It took him a moment to recognize the man.

“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at St. Mungo’s together.”

“Sorry, yes,” said John, taking the extended hand. “Mike, of course.” 

He remembered Mike as a kindly and enthusiastic healer, just out of his apprenticeship. They hadn’t been close—Mike had been somewhat on the fringes of John’s social circle—but John had liked him well enough. At Mike’s invitation, John accompanied him into a cozy Wizarding pub just around the corner from the park where John had been walking. Over a pint of bitter, they caught up. Mike was teaching at St. Mungo’s, now. John told his own story in as few words as he could. Mike didn’t offer sentimental condolences, as John had half feared he would, but instead regarded John thoughtfully.

“I know a fellow at Hogwarts,” he mused. “The new Potions master, since Snape died. He wrote and asked me to keep an ear open for anyone who might…well. The Defense Against the Dark Arts post is open.”

“Huh. As usual,” John said, and took a sip of his beer. “What about it?”

“Well, maybe you should apply. You’d get free lodging out of it, if nothing else.”

“That’d be an awful lot of work for free lodging. Can you imagine me with a bunch of teenagers? They’re like a different species.”

“I don’t know,” Mike said. “You might like it better than you imagine.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said John. “So how’s your family, then? Any kids?”

Mike didn’t resist the change of subject, and they chatted amiably for a while and promised to keep in touch. 

John thought for the rest of the afternoon about what Mike had said. Teach—the very idea! But Hogwarts…John tried to imagine it. As a kid the lives of the professors had seemed practically unreal. But now, piecing together the bits of his memories, he found that he could form a picture of them: ordinary (if quite skilled) witches and wizards, with friendships and rivalries. Colleagues, idealists, hermits. Perhaps. Perhaps.

McGonagall was the headmistress now, John knew, and when he sat down to write the next day, it felt perfectly natural to address her as such. 

_Esteemed Headmistress McGonagall,_ he wrote, and paused to think before going on.

_Mike Stamford of St. Mungo’s Hospital has given me to know that Hogwarts may be accepting applications for the position of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. While I cannot claim to have any teaching experience, I worked as a London Auror for a year before the inception of the Second Wizarding War. I fought on the front lines of that conflict nearly until its end. If these qualifications are relevant, I pray you will consider me for the post. Or indeed for any employment you may deem fitting._

He looked askance at that last, wondering if it sounded too desperate. Well, it was written now, and he hated to waste parchment. He signed it _John H. Watson, Huff. ’85-‘92_ , and sent it straight away by owl.

He had no fear that she would keep him waiting, for procrastination was not any part of her nature. Indeed, her owl found him the very next day. She invited him, in few words, to visit the school for an interview.

It was good flying weather, so John allowed an extra day for travel, and flew. High above the rolling countryside, with the wind whistling in the bristles of his broomstick, it was hard to resist a certain lightening of his heart. The fact that he could do this now, without fear of encountering Death-Eaters or Dementors, was all the proof one could want that their little corner of the world, at least, was at peace. This soft and golden country didn’t need him, John Watson, to defend it. Perhaps it would be all right to begin to hope that he would get the job.

He checked into a room at the Three Broomsticks, feeling oddly like an intruder into his own childhood. Better get used to that feeling, he supposed. After his day aloft, the small room with its crackling fireplace and feather bed felt sublimely comfortable. He slept more soundly than usual, waking only once, heart racing, some time in the pre-dawn hours. Oddly, it was the unfamiliarity of the room that led him out of his terrors: the orange glow of the embers, the moon’s crescent bent by the ripples of the ancient window glass. He fell asleep again and woke refreshed, hardly remembering his nightmare. After an excellent breakfast, he made himself smart and set off. 

His mood of optimism held until he found himself standing at the gates of Hogwarts itself. The castle could present several faces, depending on how one approached it. Viewed from the front entrance, it loomed imposingly, a fortress, heavy with centuries of accumulated lore. There was a reason, John thought, that new students were brought in via the lake instead, and he wondered which headmaster had initiated that tradition. There was something Dumbledorean about it. But he, a supplicant, was offered no such mercy. Even now he could see the half-repaired rooftops on some of the towers, a reminder of the great events which had taken place here only a little time ago.

But the great gates opened for him, and he was met by none other than McGonagall herself. Aged, but proud and erect as a broomstick, she was hardly changed at all from the strict teacher John remembered. He had been rather in awe of her, back then.

“Mr. Watson,” she greeted him, with a smile. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Headmistress,” John said. 

“If you’ll come with me, please, we’ll just go up to my office.”

She led him through the twisting halls and up the shifting stairways to the Headmaster’s office. The school year had started a couple of weeks before; it was mid-morning, between class periods. Students were everywhere, in ones and twos and little gangs, a messy, noisy tide of them hurtling this way and that. 

“I’m temporarily filling the position myself at the moment, so I was very pleased to receive your letter,” McGonagall said, as they passed the doors to the great hall. “You were always one of my favorite students, though you probably didn’t realize it. Hufflepuffs seldom do.”

“Really?” John said. “No I—I had no idea.”

“Oh yes. All of your teachers liked you. We always said you would go far.”

“I didn’t—huh. I never imagined the teachers talking about us like that, to be honest.”

“Well, goodness knows there isn’t much else to talk about, most of the time. You can’t help having favorites. Sherlock Holmes was in your year, wasn’t he?”

John blinked. “Um, he was the year after me, actually. Why?”

“He was a frequent topic of conversation,” she said. At this point John was stopped from asking any more questions by their arrival at the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster’s—Headmistress’s—Office. 

“Mumbelty-peg,” she said, and tapped it with her wand. The gargoyle grimaced and stepped aside so that they could enter. The office hadn’t changed much since John’s day, as far as he could tell, though he started a little when the large, new portrait of Albus Dumbledore that hung just behind the large claw-footed desk grinned broadly at him, and winked. 

“My God,” John said. “He’s really gone, isn’t he.”

“Yes,” said McGonagall, delicately taking her seat behind the desk, “I’m afraid he is. And poor Severus, too.” She gestured to another, more somber portrait off to one side. “A sad loss for all of us.”

“I’m sorry,” John said, looking up at the picture of Headmaster Snape, which glowered back at him. He couldn’t pretend to understand everything that had happened at Hogwarts during the war, but he had never believed Snape was evil. Seeing his picture here was a strange relief.

“Very kind,” said McGonagall absently. Then her manner changed. She folded her hands briskly on the desk and leaned forward to regard him.

“So, Mr. Watson,” she said. “I have reviewed your application. I am sorry to say that I cannot offer you the position of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“What?” said John, groping for words. “Just like that? Why not, if I may ask?”

“You don’t even know you’re doing it, do you?” Her voice had taken on a kindly, almost pitying tone.

“Doing what?”

She sighed. “I have spent the past ten minutes walking with you through a reasonably peaceful environment, though admittedly a somewhat chaotic one. Whenever we rounded a corner, you became visibly tense. Your eyes give you away, Mr. Watson—they are constantly moving, checking entrances and exits, hiding places. You are uncomfortable in the open air, and anxious in close quarters. I’m afraid your nerves, as the Muggles used to say, are shot.”

John said nothing, conscious of a flexing muscle in his jaw.

“It isn’t that I don’t believe you would be capable,” she went on gently. “It’s simply that I can’t have a Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor who might respond to a stray hex by blowing something up. These are children, not trained wizards. They are unpredictable at the best of times, and truly dangerous at their worst. One needs a steady head.”

“I see,” said John. He was distantly surprised at how disappointed he felt. How could he have imagined any other outcome? It had been madness even to try. He was about to stand up and leave when she stopped him with a gesture.

“However,” she said. “You did ask for any employment Hogwarts could offer. Looking over your records, I see that you were talented in Potions during your time here, and that you were an apprentice Healer at St. Mungo’s Hospital before becoming an Auror.”

“Yes,” said John. 

“I can offer you a position as Madam Pomfrey’s assistant. Acquit yourself well there, and we may be able to revisit your application at a later time.”

“Thank you, but—“John bit back an angry refusal, took a deep breath. “I’d like to sleep on it, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” she said, and John knew he hadn’t fooled her in the slightest. “Mister Filch will show you out.”

The caretaker, John was astonished to see, had changed even less than Professor McGonagall in the intervening years. They were just rounding the corner from the second floor corridor when a familiar voice stopped John in his tracks. It couldn’t be him—could it? 

The dark-haired, dark-robed professor who came into view, chatting intently with a witch that John didn’t recognize, could not possibly be Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock John had last seen in these halls had been scrawny, skinny, awkwardly tall, and stiff with a haughty reserve that served as inadequate cover for painful self-consciousness. When John and Holly had arrested him, he had still been gaunt and peculiar. Sherlock was quite different now: he had grown into his height, for one thing, but it was not only his pleasing proportions that made him seem bigger. Where before he had carried himself with a flinching stiffness, now he moved freely, confidently. Haughtiness had given way to self-assurance. Sherlock Holmes had grown up. He had become complete in himself.

He saw John immediately, and stopped.

“You came!” he said. He approached John with two swift steps, and loomed over him.

“You knew I was coming?” John asked.

“Well, I didn’t know it would be you, but I knew it _could_ be you. Well, did you get it? Are you taking it?”

“Taking what?” John asked.

“The position, of course! Dark arts! Are you doing it?”

Again that clench of his teeth. Have to watch it or he’d crack one. “No,” he said.

“Why ever not?” When John didn’t reply, he looked at him sharply for a long moment, then seemed to become aware of Filch and the witch he’d been walking with hovering nearby.

“Well,” Sherlock said. “You’re staying at the Broomsticks, I presume.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll meet you there tonight. Half seven.”

“Sherlock—“

“Please be there. I’ll tell you everything.”

 _Please be there._ A flash of something, too quick to see. John took a deep breath, nodded. 

“All right,” he said.

“Good,” said Sherlock. “I’ll see you, John.”

***

John had already been planning to spend another night at the inn, but suddenly he had to fight off the urge to leap back onto his broomstick and flee back to London. But at the same time, somehow, the hours until half seven passed incredibly slowly. He walked around Hogsmeade, had tea, tried to read a book in his room and failed, had a firewhiskey, had another firewhiskey—and that’s where Sherlock found him, sitting at the bar. Two drinks was nothing, though. He ordered a third before following Sherlock off to a corner table. 

They settled in. They ordered food. And then there was nothing to do but talk. 

“So,” said Sherlock.

“So,” said John. 

“Do you want to go first, or shall I?”

“Sherlock, where the hell did you go?” The words erupted out of his throat, much more raw than he’d intended. “Why didn’t you ever write back to me?”

“Right,” Sherlock said. “You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m bloody angry, Sherlock. You disappeared, with hardly a word, for—for _years_. Right when there was—at least I thought there was. Something. And then you turn up here, just—just teaching, what, Potions? Are you the new Potions master?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and he had the good grace to look sheepish. “But you’re leaving out that time in the middle—“

 _”That time,”_ John whispered fiercely, “when I found you drunk off your tits on some noxious brew, cooking up poison in your secret laboratory? That time?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, relieved. “I’m glad you remember. I was afraid I’d imagined you.”

“Sherlock, you had better tell me everything. _Everything._ ”

“All right,” Sherlock said. “So, to begin with, we went to Romania.”

“Romania? Why?”

“My parents—you probably don’t know. They fought against Voldemort during the Years of Terror. I don’t know everything they did, but I do remember when I was very small, we were always moving, sleeping in loads of different strange houses all the time, that kind of thing. We only settled down after we heard the news about the boy who lived. Anyway, that Christmas we found out—Mycroft did, actually—that some of their old enemies were ascendant again and plotting to assassinate my parents.”

“Oh my God,” John said. “So you really couldn’t write.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “I sent you that last note from a safehouse on the way. It was actually quite risky. I had to tell Archimedes not to come back to me, and Mycroft gave me hell for it anyway, when he figured out I’d done it.”

“Oh,” John said. His anger was deflating rapidly. “So, did you—how was Romania? Did you go to school there?”

“No,” Sherlock said, “but my parents found me a tutor, a really mad old woman called Daciana. She was a proper old-school witch, with a little old cottage and everything, and a broomstick she’d made herself out of a tree branch. Learned a lot from her, actually. Stuff I don’t think even Snape knew.”

“So were you happy there?”

“If I’d been happy there, you wouldn’t have found me in Croydon. No, I was unspeakably bored. I ran away back to London and started using a false name. And that’s when I—well. That’s when I started misbehaving. It was a way to make money, at first.”

“The potions,” John said. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “It wasn’t too long before I started sampling the wares. It was a way of coping, I suppose.” He looked away, and John tried to imagine what it had been like for him, without family or friends or a home to go back to.

“I wanted to write to you,” Sherlock said. “But I didn’t know if it was safe, if I was being watched. I didn’t want to put you in danger.”

“I wouldn’t have minded it,” John said. Sherlock’s eyes met his, then slid away again. “So,” John went on, “then we arrested you, and then the war started. What happened next?”

“Well, they kept me in that holding cell for several days, and then a fellow came from St. Mungo’s and said ‘I hear you’re good with potions.’ They put me to work brewing remedies for the hexed and wounded Aurors. After I’d been there a couple of months they transferred me to a field hospital in Scotland. We ran out of supplies and I had to start inventing new potions from what was on hand.”

“Sounds grueling,” John said. 

“It was invigorating,” Sherlock said. “It was the first time I hadn’t been utterly bored since you kissed me on the train. Anyhow, I suppose you can imagine the rest. Working, living, occasional brushes with death. I came through more or less unscathed though, luckily. Luckier than you, I perceive.”

John exhaled hard. “Yeah,” he said, “well…”

“You passed your N.E.W.T.s with flying colors,” Sherlock said. “You went to St. Mungo’s. You did well there, but you started to crave a more direct involvement in the fight, so you joined the Aurors. When the war broke out, they sent you straight to the front lines. There, you felt more alive than you ever had before, until, near the end of the war, you were captured, imprisoned, and tortured for some time. It couldn’t have been for too long, though, because your mind survived. How long was it?”

“How can you—“

“Deduction, John. Simple observation and deduction. How long were you imprisoned? Assuming you know.”

“A month,” John said. “More or less. I was set free when the war ended.”

“As long as that?” Sherlock asked, surprised. “How did you stay sane?”

John took a long, slow breath. And another. Sherlock clasped his hands beneath his chin, listening. John wasn’t really ready to talk about this. But he would. He would talk.

“It was our potion,” he said at last. “At the end of the year you left, I had—I had brewed up your Panacea potion, the same as my own. All the groups of three had their final potions combined when they went into the stores. Snape put yours and mine together, and he gave me a little bit of it to keep. I carried it with me after that, as a kind of good luck charm, I suppose.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said. “And they didn’t take it away when they caught you.”

“No,” John said. “It was the oddest thing. They actually took away my clothes. But when I woke up naked in that dungeon, there it was in my hand.”

For a moment he dreaded that Sherlock would make him go on, would ask how he made the potion last so long, or what they had done to him. But he didn’t. Instead, he unclasped his hands and took hold of John’s right hand, which had been shaking. 

“I’m glad it was with you,” he said. 

John nodded, and squeezed his hand.

“Anyhow,” Sherlock said, releasing him. “You’ll take the infirmary position, won’t you? You just need time, I think. McGonagall was right about that. It will hurt your pride, but you’ll get through it, and you can move in with me, so you won’t be bored.”

“Move in—? What do you mean?”

“I’ve got a large tower room all to myself. There’s more than enough room for you. Come round and see it tomorrow before you speak to Minerva.”

“I don’t—“

“Just come. In fact, just wait here and I’ll fetch you.”

“Sherlock—“

But he was already getting up to leave, thereby cutting the argument short.

“Goodbye, John. Sleep well.”

***

So Sherlock came the next morning to fetch John. He arrived by broomstick, somewhat to John’s surprise, and they flew together to the castle. Rather than landing at one of the gates, they flew straight to the southwest tower and landed on a flat section of the roof. They dismounted from their broomsticks, and Sherlock opened a small door to reveal a steep ladder descending into a large, dim space. The way they were oriented, it would have made the most sense for John to go down the ladder first. But John hesitated, and Sherlock moved smoothly across the doorway and went down. John took a deep breath and followed him.

However dungeon-like the entrance had been, the room was anything but. 

“We could put your bed over here,” Sherlock said. “Maybe make a little alcove out of the bookshelves. Or we could magic up some walls if you need more privacy—“

“No,” John said. “No. I think the shelves would be fine, if I’m…if we’re. Doing this. Sherlock, can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said.

“Why did you fail Potions?” It wasn’t what he had meant to ask. He didn’t know what he had meant to ask, really. Now that he had asked it, he realized it was only the topmost on a stack of questions he wanted answers to that somehow hadn’t been answered when Sherlock _told him everything_ the day before.

“What, the first time?” 

“Yes.” 

Sherlock sighed heavily and sat down in one of the two old armchairs that were drawn up near the hearth. He gestured for John to sit, as well. The chair was extremely comfortable, John found.

“Well,” Sherlock said. “Of course, I read the instructions for the Panacea Potion carefully before beginning. I noted the ninety-nine day window and the requirement for three wizards to work together on the Blessing.”

“So it wasn’t just that you failed to appear on a Saturday,” John said. 

“A Sunday,” Sherlock corrected him. “But, no, it wasn’t that. It was the other bit. I researched Brunhilde’s Blessing, actually. I read about what would happen if three wizards cast it together, and I…I couldn’t bring myself to do it. There was nobody in the class I could imagine doing that with.”

“You didn’t trust anyone,” John said. 

“Something like that,” said Sherlock, and grimaced.

“But you trusted me?” John asked.

“Not entirely,” Sherlock said. “But I couldn’t bear to fail the class again, and I thought it was worth the risk.”

“What risk?” John asked. “What were you afraid of?”

Sherlock took a deep breath before answering. “I really didn’t want you to hate me.”

“So you thought that if someone…I mean, I think I saw into your soul, or something. You thought that if that happened—that I would—“ 

Sherlock looked away and shrugged, his finger tapping fast on the arm of the chair.

“Afterward, I thought—well, it’s over now. John Watson and I are finished. But I knew you would still be kind to me, and you were, so.” He shrugged again. 

“Sherlock,” John said, a years-old lump rising in his throat. “It didn’t make me hate you. It made me love you.”

Sherlock curled up in his chair a little, wounded, and John saw again that coltish boy he had so wanted to be close to.

“Though, to be fair,” he said, “I think it made me love Professor Snape a little, as well, but as I’d already been in love with you, it wasn’t the same.”

Sherlock smiled, as it seemed to John, in spite of himself. “But how could you possibly?” he said. 

“I don’t know,” John said. “But there it is. Still.”

Sherlock was still curled up in his chair. 

“So, you want me to live here?” John asked, aching. “In a…in a nook made out of bookshelves?”

“No,” Sherlock said.

“Good,” said John, with a tight laugh. “Yeah, good. Me neither.”

He stood up, at first just because he couldn’t stay sitting, and then with a growing intention to simply escape. 

“Wait! John,” Sherlock leapt up and caught his wrist, stopping him. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ve made a mess of this.”

“Of what?” John asked.

In answer, Sherlock kissed him. It was the mirror of that first kiss on the train, but they were not mere boys any longer. John’s pulse spiked instantly, and he pulled Sherlock to him with his free hand. Sherlock let go of John’s wrist to cradle his cheek, and John felt suddenly every inch of Sherlock’s height, the strength he had gained, the knowledge that dwelt in his bones. 

“Oh,” John said, when Sherlock pulled away.

“Take the job,” Sherlock said. “You can move in here or not, but please stay close to me. Please.”

“Yeah,” John said, breathless. “Okay. I—oh, God, I’m meeting with McGonagall in ten minutes. I guess I’d better—“

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Go. I’ll meet you later. Before you go back to London.”

***

So John told Headmistress McGonagall that he would take the job in the infirmary. She smiled and shook his hand and asked him to call her Minerva, which was somehow the most unnerving part of the whole thing. She didn’t bring up the question of lodging, so he didn’t say anything about Sherlock’s offer, but when Sherlock caught up with him at the Three Broomsticks later that morning, he had made up his mind.

“I’ll take the nook,” he said. “It’s probably best I have my own bed, anyway, because I don’t sleep well.”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” Sherlock said. “Will that bother you?”

“Do you play it well, or badly?”

Sherlock laughed. “Not too badly.”

“Then I won’t mind much,” John said. 

They dawdled around the village together until it was time for John to go, and they kissed goodbye, rather more decorously than John would have preferred, before he sprang aloft from the village green. 

McGonagall had given him a week to make arrangements, but it was more time than he needed, so that when he came back at the end of it, he was nervous all over again. He went straight to work in the hospital wing, and was amazed at how well Madam Pomfrey remembered him, and how easy he found her company. They saw three new cases that day: a broken arm, a pimple jinx, and a flu. John assisted with the first two and observed the third. He was also tasked with managing a steady traffic of students who wanted to visit Patience Pettibone, a fourth-year Gryffindor girl who was bedridden with an unusually severe case of Merriwether’s Mucorrhea, which she seemed to have caught on holiday. As she was quite contagious, he couldn’t let them in to see her, but he took their gifts of flowers, sweets, books, and letters, which she received from him with unfeigned delight. 

The honest truth was, the students _did_ seem like alien beings, full of a raw and chaotic liveliness that stirred up in John an unexpected mixture of emotions. He tried to imagine facing a whole classroom full of them, and his stomach clenched. McGonagall knew her business, it seemed.

At the end of the day, he returned to the tower room. Sherlock’s room, strange beyond strange. The professors ate in the Great Hall, of course, so John was alone for supper, a circumstance which bothered him not at all. He cleared a space on a table near a window, magicked up his food from the kitchens, and ate it while the sun set over the lake, casting yellow beams across the towers and the castle grounds below. 

He was just considering lighting some candles when someone banged open the door. Stone walls, heavy wood—no approaching footsteps to warn him. John was on his feet with his wand out before he could think.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Sherlock cried. The wand popped obediently out of John’s hand, and he sat down heavily, heart pounding in his throat.

“Sorry,” he gasped. “Oh, God, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

“My fault,” Sherlock said. “Soundproofing charm, keeps noise out as well as in. I’ll modify it so you can hear me coming next time.”

“Still,” John said, rubbing his eyes. “I was ready to zap you.”

“You won’t zap me,” Sherlock said. “I’ll be more careful. And you’ll get better. Really.”

“God, I hope so,” John said. 

“So,” Sherlock said, lighting his flock of candles with a flick of his wand, “your alcove. How do you like it?”

“Oh! Yeah, it’s good,” John said. Sherlock had indeed provided a very comfortable—well, not a corner, as it was a round room, but a segment, made private by attractive bookshelves and a couple of louvered wooden screens. Inside was a large bed hung with green velvet curtains, a wooden chest, and a tall, narrow wardrobe. It was about a third around the room from Sherlock’s own bed (which was not in a nook), a distance that seemed at once decorous and perhaps a bit silly. But it was pleasant enough. He’d be able to sleep there. He had already put away his few possessions.

“Are you tired?” Sherlock asked. “I can try to be quiet if you want to retire—“

John laughed. “Sherlock, it’s half past seven. I probably have five hours until bedtime.”

“Oh, thank God,” Sherlock said.

“So, do you want to show me around this place?” John asked. “I’ve no idea what I can touch without having it explode.”

“If you like,” Sherlock said, and so he took John around the room and told him what was what. John asked him what he was working on, and Sherlock described his ongoing potion experiments with increasing enthusiasm. John listened, and asked questions, and made suggestions, until he was struck silent by the dawning realization that this was the first time they had actually done _this_ , just been together, with all the time in the world ahead of them. Some emotion expanded in his chest, and his conversation dwindled to monosyllables.

“John?” Sherlock asked, noticing.

“Sorry,” John said, and then: “Sherlock.” Sherlock, close to him, turned, and John pulled him in for a kiss. Sherlock gave a quiet hum of approval and put his arms around John’s back, and they stood and kissed for a long moment in the dusk. 

“I used to think about doing this every night before I went to sleep,” John said.

Sherlock grinned crookedly, still holding John close by his waist. “You thought every night about doing this, or you thought about—about doing this every night?” 

“Both, actually,” John laughed. “Every night. All night. Though not just this, of course.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, and kissed him again. The kiss turned heated, this time, and John got his hands up into Sherlock’s hair—another thing he’d pictured doing a thousand times. It was every bit as silky and grabbable as he had imagined, but what he hadn’t imagined was the little sound Sherlock made in his throat, the way his whole body sparked up and shivered against John’s. John tugged again, and Sherlock broke the kiss with a gasp and pressed his lips to the side of John’s neck.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Can we?”

“God, let’s,” John said. He used his grip to tip Sherlock’s head back, and grazed his lips and teeth over the exposed, soft skin of his throat. Sherlock made that sound again, his adams-apple bobbing, and John had to just close his eyes and breathe for a moment.

“Bed?” Sherlock asked, breathless. 

“Yeah,” John said. They disengaged enough to make their way, still touching, to Sherlock’s big bed. Sherlock pulled aside the chestnut-colored curtain to reveal the bedclothes still all rumpled from the night before. John chuckled at the comfortable disarray, and fell back willingly onto the wrinkled sheets. Sherlock fell with him, and kissed him again, getting his hands up under John’s shirt. Sherlock was still wearing his professorial robes, on top of a trim waistcoat, shirt, and trousers. The robes made a dark, enveloping tent over them both, and John felt deliciously wicked undoing his clothes underneath it. Sherlock never stopped kissing him, his mouth and cheeks and neck and ears, until John had got him totally unbuttoned. Then John gave him a gentle push back, and Sherlock sat up astride him, all his layers unpeeled and falling back gloriously from his chest and shoulders, his pale skin golden in the dim light. With that, and his dark tousled hair and pale eyes and bitten-pink lips, John hardly knew where to begin.

“God, you’re lovely,” John said, and Sherlock laughed at him.

“Am I?” he said, tipping his chin showily.

“Oh yeah,” John said. He petted his knuckles up Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock positively purred. In this position, his backside was perfectly positioned to grind on John’s erection, and this he did, luxuriously. John bit his lip and pushed up into him, making Sherlock’s eyelids flutter. John took hold of Sherlock’s cock, still trapped in his pants, and squeezed and stroked it slowly while Sherlock rode him. It made a nice handful, thick and hefty. He worked his thumb into the placket of the shorts Sherlock was wearing and stroked it across the leaking tip.

“Did you think about this as well?” Sherlock asked. 

“Did you?” John parried, and Sherlock leaned down, sliding back out of John’s hand, to speak low in his ear.

“Oh, I did,” he said. He rocked his hips, building friction, and John groaned. “Even before the train, but especially afterward. Even your trivial letters made me hard. I used to wank myself raw over you.”

“Used to?” John said, feigning hurt.

“Then I got better at wanking,” Sherlock said, and John laughed, loud and genuine, as Sherlock slid down the bed and set to work removing John’s trousers. He was still giggling when Sherlock took his cock in his mouth, and his laugh slid away into a groan. Sherlock sucked John deep once, just to get his attention, and then pulled off.

“Pull my hair again,” he said, so John slid his fingers along Sherlock’s scalp and pulled as Sherlock took him in again with a rumbling groan. 

“God, Sherlock,” John moaned. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered up for a moment as he bobbed his head on John’s cock—rather expertly, if John was any judge. He clearly hadn’t limited himself to wanking for all this time. Who had been his first? John wondered. Who had taught him this, who had pulled his hair? How old had he been when he lost his awkwardness and turned into this gorgeous creature?

“I’m close,” John breathed. “Oh, slow, slow down.” He used his grip in Sherlock’s hair to still him, and Sherlock looked up at him questioningly. 

“Don’t want to finish like this,” John said. Sherlock pulled off of John’s cock and rested his head against John’s thigh, his mouth red and beautiful.

“How, then?” he asked.

“Want you in me,” John said. A simple truth about what he liked, but his cheeks heated up anyway.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Sherlock said, sitting up quickly. He shook back his clothes and began tugging off the cuffs of his robe. He undressed while John took his shirt off. When they came back together, all naked now, John moaned at the silky touch of Sherlock’s skin. He hadn’t exactly been celibate, but it had been a long time since someone touched him like this. Not since before he was captured. It felt good. Safe.

 _Don’t think about it,_ John thought, but now he was thinking about it. Sherlock sensed something, of course.

“John?” he said, quietly.

“I’m all right,” John said. “Kiss me.”

So Sherlock kissed him, very tenderly, and _oh God no_ he was _not_ going to cry. He sucked Sherlock’s tongue into his mouth. He levered up on one elbow, pushing Sherlock up with him, and gave Sherlock’s hair a good tug with his free hand. Sherlock whimpered a little, and reached for John’s cock. John mirrored him, breaking free of the kiss so that he could take little bites of his neck and shoulders while he stroked him. He looked down at Sherlock’s cock in his hand, all rosy-red and ready for its work.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock moaned.

“Come on,” John said. He lay back to let Sherlock roll between his legs. Sherlock twisted away for a moment and came back with his wand. He murmured a lubrication charm—John’s favorite of the several he knew—then tossed aside the wand and applied his amply slickened hand to John’s cock. After a few quick, delicious strokes, he slid his fingers back, and John moaned as they breached him. 

“Oh, ’s good,” he said. “God, I want you, do it, please.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said, but with two fingers still inside him, he kissed John again, that same tender kiss. John welled up shivering into it, dry-eyed but cracked open, so that when Sherlock centered up and pressed into him at last, he felt pierced to his soul. He made some inarticulate noise, and Sherlock kissed him more, though the angle was more difficult.

“God,” said Sherlock, breathing hard, “I won’t last.”

“’S okay,” said John, and Sherlock leaned up to make room so that John could take himself in hand. He’d been close already, and it took barely a touch for all of his heat and want and that flayed-open feeling to coalesce again into the sweet sum of their parts. Sherlock moved slowly and deliberately, his cock dragging over the spot that made John leak and tremble, and John was really not going to last either, as it turned out.

“More,” he said. Sherlock grunted and thrust harder, so close John could feel it, and that was enough to drive him over the edge. John cried out and spilled over, throbbing. Sherlock was only a second behind him, thundering through John’s aftershocks with a loud moan. More kissing—sloppy, unthinking, jelly-boned—and then they rolled and lay together in the warm-rumpled darkness of the bed. 

The curtains were heavy. The air was thick with their breath. 

John’s breath, his breathing, kicking up again. _Don’t think about it._ Slowly, slowly, breathing.

After a few minutes, Sherlock sat up abruptly. “Stuffy, isn’t it?” he said. He reached for his wand, which had fetched up in a wrinkle of the coverlet, and, with a few brisk motions, pushed back the curtains on three sides of the bed. Then he settled again. John burrowed his face against his shoulder.

“Bit obvious, am I?” he asked.

“Transparent,” Sherlock said. “But it’s not a problem.”

“Mmm,” said John. There were things he should say— _thank you_ among them, probably—but that would feel too much like thinking, and he didn’t want to think. He wanted to press his face into Sherlock’s skin, which he did, and Sherlock kissed the top of his head and got an arm around him. “’S good,” said John, and fell into a doze.

***

 _A dark place. Dark, dark, dark, and_ close _, just the sound of his breathing echoing off of stone, cold stone, and all his skin knew the touch of it, rough-hard and seeping wet. He knew the taste of the water that seeped on the surface of the wall that was furthest from the door, the door which he did not like to think about because that was the place they appeared when they were going to hurt him, and they were going to hurt him again very soon and his little golden light had gone out and he was empty, quite empty, nothing left but dregs, and when the dregs were drunk it would be over, and he shouldn’t want it to be over but God, please, let it be over, let it end this time, and goodbye hateful little golden light that had kept him so long from his rest, and good riddance to you._

_Music._

_No music in this place. Wrong, all wrong. He would not listen._

_But the music. The music was coming through the wall, the wall that seeped. The water that seeped was turning into light, golden light; the whole wall was glazed with it. Beneath his fingers it was warm…sticky. He licked it, honey-sweet, and it wasn’t a wall any longer so he pressed improbably through, out of the cell and into the dark. And the music._

***

It was still dark, early morning, with a half moon staring in, and Sherlock was up, wrapped in a dressing gown, playing his violin near the window. But it wasn’t the violin that had woken him. He had been sleeping soundly, he felt, though he also remembered having a bad dream, and he knew the music had been with him when he slept. He lay still, listening to it. He knew the tune; knew it perfectly, note for note. But he couldn’t think what it was called or where he had heard it before.

John sat up. Sherlock stopped playing abruptly, turning to look at him.

“What was that song?” John asked.

“Why? Do you like it?” Sherlock said.

“Keep playing,” John said. “Please.”

Sherlock kept playing, and John listened. He _knew_ it. But what was it? The notes were pulling at him, carrying him. Tenderly. Tears welled suddenly in his eyes. He couldn’t stop them, and they rolled down his cheeks. 

“Oh, stop!” he cried, covering his eyes.

Sherlock put down the instrument hurriedly and came to the bed.

“John?” he said, _tenderly_ , and John pressed close and let Sherlock take him in his arms. The tears were falling fast; he gritted his teeth against a sob.

“What is that song?” he asked again. 

“I…I wrote it, actually,” Sherlock said in a small voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would do this to you.”

“Why did you write it?” John asked.

“It was after we cast the Blessing together,” Sherlock said. “It—I don’t know, it wasn’t like writing music, really. The tune just came to me, and I remembered it. It’s always in my head when I’m with you. I started playing it when you seemed to be having a nightmare. I thought it might help.”

“It did help.”

“Does it hurt you?”

“No,” John said, and sniffed. “It’s so strange, though. I don’t know why it—Jesus.” He sat up, rubbed his nose and eyes, trying to pull himself together. “It was so…beautiful, actually.”

“I’ve always thought so,” Sherlock said. He pulled John into a tight hug. John hugged back, and let Sherlock hold him for a while. Eventually they shifted down into the bed again. John sought Sherlock’s lips, maybe just to say goodnight, but once he started kissing Sherlock, he found he didn’t want to stop. Sherlock seemed to be of the same mind. John pulled open the tie of Sherlock’s dressing gown, found him naked and hard beneath. He pressed close, and Sherlock moaned. They rubbed together, hot and languid, until Sherlock wormed a hand between them to grab and stroke John’s cock against his own. John hadn’t expected to come again, but the orgasm welled up sweetly, hot all over his body, and Sherlock gasped and shuddered and spilled against him at the same time. Afterward, Sherlock provided a clean-up charm (not the same as a bath, but neither of them felt much like trekking down the tower stairs), and then John had the remarkable pleasure of feeling Sherlock fall asleep in his arms before he, too, succumbed.

The morning dawned bright and terribly early. Reluctantly, they separated, washed, and dressed, and John trip-trapped down the tower stairs with Sherlock. They kissed goodbye, and John went to work. The hospital wing was quiet in the morning, and John occupied himself with stocking the supply cupboards. He felt a little less raw today than yesterday—maybe just because the first-day jitters were out of the way, but it felt like more than that. He hummed Sherlock’s tune to himself, and when Patience Pettibone’s first visitor arrived, he smiled, recognizing her from the day before.

“Can I see Patience yet?” she asked, clutching tightly at a letter in her hand. She was maybe a third year, Gryffindor.

“Sorry,” said John, “not until her symptoms die down. It shouldn’t be much longer, though.”

“Could you—could you let me know? I just really miss her.”

“If it’s all right with her, I will,” John said. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Joanie Morris. Thank you. Can you give her this?”

“Of course,” John said, taking the creased bit of parchment.

“You won’t read it, will you?” Joanie asked.

“Course not,” John said. “I’ll take it to her as soon as she wakes up.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said again. “Well, goodbye.”

John examined the letter with bemusement. Sherlock probably could have deduced what was in it just by looking at the outside. John, mere mortal that he was, could only guess, but he thought he had a pretty fair idea. Not so alien after all, maybe.

***

So John worked, and the months passed. The Christmas Holiday came and went, with its various familial obligations and awkward moments. John didn’t bring Sherlock home to meet his parents, but he did tell them about him, and his mum went so far as to profess herself happy for him. After the holiday, they dismantled John’s nook and got rid of the extra bed. Sometimes, when John woke up alone in the bed they shared, he could tell that Sherlock had played him out of a bad dream, but the violin always switched to a more ordinary tune before he opened his eyes. They never spoke of it directly.

By the start of spring term, John felt comfortable calling his superiors Poppy and Minerva, and he was easy enough with the other professors and staff that he didn’t mind running into them. The young witch he had seen talking with Sherlock on the day of his interview was the new Divination professor, Molly Hooper. She was young enough to have been in school with him and Sherlock, but she had attended Beauxbatons. Given Sherlock’s views on divination, he was surprised that they were friends, but once he got to know her, he found that he liked her, as well, and the three of them made a little pack and went out now and then for a drink in the village.

Over the summer, John went along with Sherlock to stay in the flat that he still kept in London. He briefly considered refusing, in order to put up a show of self-sufficiency, but Sherlock convinced him without much trouble. They also took an actual holiday and went to look at castles and sea caves and drink port in Portugal—Molly’s idea—and came back nut-brown and shagged out and perhaps permanently hung over. It was around the time of their return that Professor McGonagall sent John a letter offering him a chance to re-interview for the position of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts.

“Do you still want it?” Sherlock asked, reading over his shoulder.

“Of course,” John said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You seem to find your present work fairly gratifying.”

John snorted. “I find _you_ fairly gratifying. The work is all right, but I can’t spend my life patching up minor hexes and broken hearts.”

“You still crave danger.”

“It isn’t that,” John said. “Or not exactly. But if it’s out there, I want—I want to _face_ it. And I want _them_ to face it, and be ready. You know, while you and I were in school, we had a different Dark Arts professor every year or two. They deserve better than that.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, “they do.”

So John went to meet the headmistress—Minerva—at her family’s estate outside of Edinburgh. She asked him many questions this time, including some rather probing ones about his relationship with Sherlock. They had a long conversation, and at the end of it John felt reasonably optimistic. Sure enough, a few weeks before the start of term, a letter came offering him the position. He accepted, and he and Sherlock celebrated with dinner out and a night of quite spectacular sex.

They went back to their tower room a few days before the start of term, aired it out, and settled in again. While John sat by the fire, Sherlock took up his violin and began to play. He played a few classical pieces—the ones whose names John could never keep straight no matter how many times Sherlock told him—and then he wandered into the start of the tune he had written for John. A few measures in, he stopped abruptly.

“Sorry,” he muttered, and seemed about to embark on some other piece.

“No, play it,” John said. “I’d like to hear it again.”

So, standing beside him, Sherlock played. The notes still pulled at John’s heart, tenderly as ever. John closed his eyes and let the music move him, waiting to see if he would feel again that piercing ache of loss. But there was no loss this time, only beauty, and behind his closed eyes he saw again his young self, as he had been when he first fell in love: bright and raw and open, untouched by the shadow of fear. When the last note faded, he opened his eyes, and though he was his older self again, he knew that a child still dwelt at the core of his being. 

Sherlock had been watching him. John looked up at him with joy, and Sherlock’s answering smile was radiant as the sun.


End file.
